


Small World

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: First and Commander: Namira Lavellan x Cullen Rutherford [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Circle Tower, Gen, Lyrium, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an innocent question.  Did Cullen know Leliana before the Inquisition?  Yes and no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small World

One cold day Cullen stands in the snow outside Haven with the new recruits, the Herald asking him questions.  She stands with her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her feet.  It’s idle conversation, a good way to pass the time, and slowly they get to know each other.  He has started to enjoy their discussions.  Their talks are a good thing, he thinks.

“What do you think of the people you work with?” she asks brightly.  

“Who do you mean?” Cullen replies.  

“Leliana, for one.  Did you know her before the Inquisition?” the Herald asks.

It’s only a handful of words.  A simple question.  All he has to say is  _No_.

But he’d be lying then, wouldn’t he?  

The seconds stretch out before him, silence growing awkward.  The Herald looks at him, waiting for his answer.  Before he can stop them they are there again, those damned memories he can’t seem to shake.  Without lyrium they come upon him without warning sometimes, and though he fights it – 

He’s young and exhausted, bowed over his clenched hands, the Chant a mumbled plea between cracked lips.  He doesn’t know how long it’s been since it all began, since demons and blood magic brought his world to its knees.  He’s the only one.  The only one.  The demons tell him so, voices soft and liquid in his ears, ringing with a music he can’t place.  He almost knows the tune, but there’s something discordant in it, isn’t there, something foul and filthy wending through the notes.  He doesn’t want to listen.  Doesn’t want to, but it’s all there is, that blasted singing, those whispered pleas laid over the sound of screams, temptation slick and wet against his skin like a mockery of kissing – he’s sweating, nauseous, weak, and the singing’s beautiful in its way, even if the way it throbs and pulses brings his gorge to his throat –

There are different voices now, cutting through the song with a cleanness that is striking.  He stops his muttered prayers for just a moment, not daring to believe the voices are real.  There are people standing there.  A young man his age who looks vaguely familiar.  One of the mages, older; her name escapes him.  A red-haired young woman with a bow at her back and sorrow in her eyes.  There’s someone else with them, and he thinks he knows her, but he thought that earlier, too, didn’t he?  And he was wrong then; what’s to say he’s not wrong now?  He cannot bear to look at her, cannot bear to remember demons sinuous and false.

His eyes are bleary.  They struggle to focus on the woman with the red hair.  She is speaking, though he does not know to whom.

“He’s delirious,” she says sadly, her voice Orlesian-accented.  “He’s been tortured… and probably denied food and water.  I can tell.”

Is she speaking about him?  He doesn’t know, truly, can’t seem to put the horror in her eyes together with her words, can’t make her statement relate to the way his blood cries out for lyrium, the gnawing of his stomach, the scratching dryness in his mouth and throat.  

“Rest easy,” she says, “help is here.”

It’s all a lie, everything soft lies and congealed blood and the stink of sweat and musk, and he lashes out at the apparitions, hating them and their calumnies with a fierceness that burns white-hot.  He won’t be fooled again, he tells himself, but he’s lying too, and if he’s weeping, if he’s screaming, he doesn’t know it.

“Cullen?” the Herald asks, and there’s snow beneath his feet again, clean mountain air to breathe, and he shakes his head.

“I met Leliana once, long ago,” he says thickly.  “We – barely spoke.  I did not meet her again until I joined the Inquisition.”  He swallows, struggling to find the words.  He does not feel well at all now.  “It would not exist without her.  I may not always agree with her methods, but she is more passionate about our – our cause, than anyone.”

“It must have been odd, seeing her again,” the Herald muses.  “It’s truly a small world at times, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Cullen.  He forces a smile to his face, but it feels as if it is the wrong size, mismatched to his own mouth.  “If you’ll excuse me, Herald, I should get back to work.”

“Of course,” she says, but as she leaves him, there’s a concerned look in her eye that says she senses something wrong.  He does not let her gaze linger.  Instead he turns around and marches purposely away from the training grounds.

One of the recruits finds him a few minutes later in the trees outside the town, bringing up his lunch in the bushes.  “Commander, Ser told me to come find you – are you all right, Commander?” the recruit asks, seeing Cullen straighten up and wipe his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

“It’s nothing,” he says shortly.  “Stew must have been off.  No matter.  I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Are you sure –”

“Enough, recruit.  Back to work,” says Cullen, leaving no room for argument.  The recruit claps her arm against her chest in uneasy assent, turns and leaves.  He waits until she is out of sight.

Cullen braces himself against the nearest tree, breathing heavily through his mouth.  His head pounds and his mouth tastes of sick and there’s a cold sweat prickling on the back of his neck.  He breathes in – long, slow, smooth – and breathes out – sharp, shuddery, staccato – until the nausea passes.

He allows himself a moment, sagging against the tree, letting it support him.  He does not give himself long before he brings himself back to his full height, strides back towards the training grounds.  The headache still throbs in the background, and his mouth still has an acrid burn to it.  He knows he is not at his best right now.

But there’s work to do, memories or no; and he will do it.

**Author's Note:**

> My Warden had brought Leliana to the tower, and her compassionate dialogue is what you get when she sees Cullen. But I couldn't find any dialogue in DA:I where Leliana or Cullen references meeting each other at Kinloch Hold. ...super fun angsty ficlet time!


End file.
